A Valentine
by FormidableJoy
Summary: This is not the Valentine's Day he had planned. Set between 7x14 Resurrection and 7x15 Reckoning. Only vague spoilers in relation to the promo for 7x15.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This assumes that the time between 7.14 and 7.15 in the Castleverse is in real time._

_Will most likely be a two-parter. _

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

**A Valentine**

Weary fingers trail over the items hidden at the very back of his bedside table drawer. The pads of his digits snag on the velvet of the small box and he removes this first, prying open the lid gingerly, more afraid of his reaction to the contents than the contents themselves. Inside is a pair of earrings, the stones catching the light and changing from green to amber to yellow within their settings. He had been browsing aimlessly before these caught his attention. They immediately reminded him of his wife's shinning eyes. It still catches him off guard sometimes when she turns to him, her lips curved into a perfect curve, and her eyes bright and fixed on him. A beautiful smile. A smile for him.

He swipes a tear from under his own eye when he thinks of her. He's sure her eyes aren't alight with happiness anymore. It's more likely they are dull with pain and fear. Or worse –

He snaps the box lid shut as if the action can close off the thoughts which are haunting him all too often.

The next items he retrieves are clearly a set of books. Their covers are beautifully embossed in swirling gilt and the words etched in cursive calligraphy. He flips the cover on one to see the lines of unreadable script; the shapes of the letters so unfamiliar he can't even being to fathom the words. But he knows, he _knows_, that his talented, bright, extraordinary wife would be able to drink from the page, the story flowing through her as she translates with ease.

She had bemoaned the fact that her Russian was slipping. So he purchased a full set of Tolstoy's works in their original language, including the obvious 'War and Peace' and 'Anna Karenina', and the lesser known 'The Cossacks' and comedy 'The First Distiller'. He has to admit, the gift wasn't chosen entirely selflessly. He loves when Beckett speaks in Russian, shivers as the hard sounds are formed and released, watches with devoted awe as her lips form around the words. He had fully planned on encouraging her to read to him.

And now…

Now he'd give anything to hear her voice again, in any language. He doesn't care if he's pillowed in her lap as she reads aloud to him, or if she's poking him in chest in the midst of an argument.

He wonders if she's speaking now. If she calling, crying, desperately for him, for anyone to find her. For anyone to bring her home.

He scrubs his palms over his face, but quickly gives up as the tears fall steadily faster. Shoulders slumped and hands dangling uselessly between his knees, he is the picture of desolation. At this moment, he curses his writer's brain, curses the vivid imagination he possesses. With seemingly every blink of his aching eyes, he pictures his wife: curled alone on dusty concrete, her body bruised and trembling; bound to a chair and breathing harsh, frightened pants while Tyson stalks around her; lying prone on an operating table, watching with terror as Neiman lowers a scalpel towards her beautiful face.

But despite how bad those images are, worst are the visions that come to him unbidden during his too brief snatches of sleep.

The most heartbreakingly, gut-wrenchingly devastating scenes play on a repeating, maddening loop. Scenes when she's not moving, when her eyes are unfocussed and dull, when her lips are pale and slack, when her chest is still, when her veins no longer thrum. Those are the images which startle him awake, his sweat-soaked form heaving with distraught sobs.

Rousing himself, he places the gifts back, sliding the drawer closed. The symbolism of the action is not lost on him.

Valentine's Day and his wife is not here to share the day with him.

He doesn't even know if she'll be here for the next one.


	2. Chapter 2

_Where is it?_ He huffs, treading through to the darkened bedroom, only to be arrested at the sight before him. Kate's there, before him on the bed, back home where he feared she'd never be again. Two days she was missing; a relatively short period of time. But complete agony. He found her yesterday, they spent the night clutching at each other. And this morning he's so thankful all over again.

He eases down beside her, resisting the urge to touch her, and pulls open the bedside drawer through touch alone. He blindly searches through the contents, fingers stretching over and under objects which are clearly not his phone charger. His eyes travel down the form of his wife, trace the blanket's slope as it moulds to her waist, and then the rise up over her hip. Her curled legs create a slight undulation in the otherwise flat surface of the lower half of the blanket.

She releases a sigh in her sleep and he smiles, completely besotted. That is until his fingers alight on two smooth, square objects on the back of the drawer. He instantly knows what they are and his smile falls. He pulls them out, wincing as they catch on another object, causing it to topple with a clatter.

His attention is immediately drawn back to his wife who shifts at the noise.

"Castle?" Kate features crease into the adorable frown she wears when she's forced awake.

He whips he arm behind him, hiding the packages. "Go back to sleep, Kate."

Instead, she shifts onto an elbow, squinting at him. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," he soothes. "Just looking for my phone charger."

"Alexis borrowed it remember? Hers broke." She pushes herself up further, and as her expression clears, he knows she's not going back to sleep. "You can use mine." She snags the plug from her nightstand, and as she passes it over to him, she eyes his awkward position with confusion. "What's wrong with your arm?"

_Damn it_! "Nothing."

His attempt at nonchalance fails as she questions suspiciously. "What're you hiding?"

He sighs in resignation; she's tenacious enough not to let him escape without explanation. He places the packages on the bedspread between them. When she makes no move to take them, he nudges them forward, prompting, "Your Valentine's gift, Kate."

"Valentine's… It was… Oh." And she looks so forlorn. "Our first one. And I never even bought you anything. It was going to but then-" Her lips start to tremble, her voice becoming thick. "I'm sorry. Castle I'm so sorry I missed it." And the tears fall.

* * *

He holds her, rocks her, murmurs to her. But it's the first time she's cried since he found her. So he doesn't attempt to cheer her. He lets her have this release, let's her cry in abandon and soak his shirt and redden her eyes. He listens while she stutters through her ordeal, the story unlinear and broken and full of holes but it's something.

She eases back eventually, taking a few moments to smooth down the crumpled fabric of his shirt, as if in acknowledgement that he too needs comforting in the face of her upset.

* * *

"Can we do Valentine's tonight? Let me buy you something first."

He wants to tell her that a gift is unnecessary, that having her back is worth more than any Valentine's, Christmas or birthday present. Yet he merely agrees with her, sensing his easy acquiescence will do more to settle her right now than a deep declaration of his feelings.

"Okay." She nods resolutely and stands, brushing the tears from her cheeks. "I'll go shopping once I'm showered."

"I-"

"But you'll come?" she interrupts before he has a chance to figure out how to tell her he isn't ready to be parted from her yet.

He nods and she snags his hand.

* * *

She sticks close while they walk through the quirky SoHo streets. She's more alert than usual, but then again so is he, and he's more than happy to have her fingers intertwined with his, or his arm over her shoulders, or her hand in the crook of his elbow.

She makes him look away while she browses inside the shops, makes him promise not to peek. And he doesn't. For once, he listens, despite how much it pains him to let her out of his sight.

* * *

Their evening is understated and quiet. It holds none of Castle's usual extravagance and penchant for dramatics upon every occasion.

Yet even under the circumstances, it's perfect.

Neither have the energy to cook so they order takeout. Presents are exchanged and the night ends with the curled together on the sofa while Kate reads Tolstoy aloud to him in Russian. She wears the earring his brought for her, the ones that reminded him of her eyes. Yet unlike when she was missing, they no longer hold his attention. Instead, he focuses on her actual eyes, sees the shift in colour as her eyes trace over the Cyrillic script. He drifts down over the slope of her nose to her mouth, her lips shaping out the letters, the tantalising, occasional glimpse of her tongue against her teeth.

Kelli Nieman wanted Kate's face…

He shudders but she tightens her grip around him without break her flow, soothes a pattern against his chest with lithe fingers, and he's gradually brought again under the spell of her voice.

He's able to revel in the delayed Valentine's Day he had been so scared they'd never experience together.

**_Fin_**

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_A/N: Thank you for reading! _

_Can we pretend that it's still February and I'm not so awful that I finished my Valentine's fic in July?_


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